Chapter 10
Chapter 10
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 010
Chapter Title: Reconnaissance (1)
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The history of the Ester Continent was short.
It began sixty-seven years ago with the arrivals from the old world.
What they first laid eyes on were vast plains thick with wild crops, and natives who had carved out their own civilization, scraping by in daily desperate battles against orcs.
Those who recognized the boundless potential of this land wasted no time before their first act: division.
First the slaves fled, then the commoners, and finally the lesser nobles, each chasing their own desires.
Scattering to every corner, they captured natives to use as slaves and claimed noble titles for themselves. Some formed alliances or conquered their neighbors to swell their ranks, and in time, a few even founded their own nations.
Of course, the Empire didn't sit idly by through all this.
They dispatched punitive expeditions and offered bribes, pouring every resource into stopping it. But the land was vast, and with multiple uprisings erupting simultaneously in those early days of colonization, they hit their limits.
And so the New World divided into the Empire at its center, three duchies, four kingdoms, countless independent domains, and in the south, the coalition of natives they branded as barbarians.
The process bore an uncanny resemblance to the early history of the Old World.
The northern natives, too, had been fierce resisters who refused subjugation to the bitter end. Now, they were crumbling.
"Uwaaak!"
"Grrruk. Kill them all. Make food."
"Kyaaak!"
Flames roared through the village, and residents lay sprawled in pools of their own blood. None went down without a fight, of course.
"Haat! Die, you monster!"
"Krruk, krrurruk."
A brave boy's sword lodged halfway into an orc warrior's neck. But before he could yank it free, a club smashed into the young hero.
Crack.
The boy's skull shattered, and his body crumpled limply to the ground.
The natives fought fiercely, but no matter how many orcs they felled, more poured in endlessly.
"Chiiik, chiiiik. Die."
"Sons of proud Warren, hold the line! Strike!"
Slash.
Thud.
A sword cleaved an orc warrior's chest. A clear human victory—but orcs felt pain with a sluggish delay. The orc's single-edged axe finally buried itself in the man's shoulder.
"Kweeeek."
"Uwaaak."
The human warrior clutched his left shoulder and staggered back. As the orc toppled, an elite orc a full head taller than the rest stepped forward.
"Grruk. Sending Tung to the next world in one blow? Not bad, human."
"Grh, come on then."
Aslop, the Warren tribe's greatest warrior and chieftain, stood unflinching.
'I hope Elena and the children escaped safely.'
Despite his inner worries, he took a bold step forward.
"Kuh."
"Uwaaak."
The battle soon devolved into a one-sided slaughter. Human warriors who burned with defiance to the last fell one by one to the earth. Even those moaning from wounds fell silent under orcish axes.
'I won't grieve. I'll join you soon enough.'
Gripping his dulled blade, he summoned his final strength.
"Hraaap!"
He charged the elite orc.
Faces of those who'd gone before flashed in his mind like phantoms. And then, peace settled over him.
The Astria Empire grappled with a shallow system born of its brief history, compounded by fractious local powers forever clamoring for independence. Yet it managed them through a mix of force and flattery.
The northern frontier push was one such effort, cloaked in the noble cause of driving out orcs and civilizing the natives. No extra support came with it, though.
In other words, whoever seized it first owned it.
This drew the attention of powers lurking in the Empire's blind spots—Hasselthorpe, Caminity, and Brennenton among them.
The north became their playground for rivalry.
Serfs and convicts were shipped in, and labor shortages filled by capturing natives.
It was brutal, humans hunting humans—but given the harsh cold and monsters, not the worst outcome. Frontier life valued skill over origins anyway.
Karl Bailyner, vice commander of the 1st Company and its healer, hailed from those very natives.
He stepped out of his quarters early that morning.
His skin glowed clear beyond his years, his breathing steady, his silver hair shimmering with luster as it swayed.
"You're here, sir?"
Arriving at the quarantine area, the sentry on night watch snapped out of a yawn and saluted.
"The wounded?"
"Last check, they were all sleeping soundly."
"Good work."
"No trouble at all."
Inside the wounded barracks, the air mingled human scent with herbal aromas.
As he laid out bandages and herbs on the table, the sentry ducked in and roused the patients.
"All up."
"Yawn. Morning already?"
"Ugh."
The sleeping wounded stirred one by one. Some clutched their injuries, blinking in surprise.
"Mess in one hour. Barracks dining only until further notice. Dismissed."
The soldier delivered his message, saluted again, and left.
Then Karl Bailyner called out loudly.
"Anyone feel up to moving?"
"Ah, sir, I'll help."
"Good, Jack. You handle the wet cloths."
"No problem."
"Start with the left bunks—wash up. Right side, unwrap bandages and line up one by one."
Most were light wounds, and the men obeyed readily.
Treatment was straightforward. Jack wiped soiled areas with wet cloths; Karl prescribed herbs.
"Ugh."
"This one's inflamed bad—looks like strong liquor for him."
"Got it, sir."
"Treated men, stay in barracks. Next."
"This itches like hell."
"Better than dying. Bear it."
"Yes, sir."
No place preached efficiency and simplicity like the army. The aid station was no exception.
"You're healed. Go home. Next."
The line shrank quickly, refilling with washed soldiers.
"I'll help too. Jack, take a break."
"I'm fine. Fresh cloth there?"
With light cases stepping up post-treatment, things sped up.
"Wrapping up. Tell them to eat."
"Yes, sir. On it."
At Karl's word, the men moved on their own.
"You heard him? Straighten those bunks."
"Open the back door. Want dust with your meal?"
Soldiers who looked like they'd ignore orders anyway hustled to comply.
It was the charisma born of Karl's life-saving skills. His feats rivaled Brad's, marking him as the unit's number two.
A man scratching his wound turned to his neighbor.
"Hey, Huxley, what're your plans?"
"Scouting drill instructor spots."
"Makes sense. Civilian life's just hunting otherwise. Better as a unit officer."
Treated men gathered in groups, debating reorganization over meals.
"All done."
Karl slapped the last patient's back and swigged the remaining liquor.
Gulp, gulp.
The fiery spirit that could light a blaze slid down Karl Bailyner's throat without resistance. Jack swallowed hard watching.
Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, Karl said casually,
"Not for you. Hold off till the wounds heal."
"Ah, yes, sir."
Jack gazed at him with admiration.
Not just for healing prowess—among men, drinking capacity was a skill too.
"One more round tonight. Tell them to rest till then. Got it?"
"Yes, sir. I'll make sure they stay put."
"Good. You're dismissed."
Karl rose leisurely, liquor bottle sloshing in his left hand.
But the respite didn't last.
"Huff, huff... Vice Commander, sir!"
As he exited quarantine, the recon squad leader came running.
Recon men gasping like that usually brought bad news. Karl's face hardened, though his natural stoicism hid it.
"1st Squad's back. Report here."
"...!"
Karl Bailyner took the wooden tally and frowned.
"2nd and 3rd?"
"Not yet. Ah, there."
Just then, figures stumbled in from afar.
"Recon 2nd Squad reporting back. Here's ours."
"3rd Squad..."
Karl's expression darkened further as he checked each tally.
"Where's the commander?"
"Saw him at the training grounds."
Karl set off at the squad leader's reply.
"Reporting without verification?"
"It's big. Report first."
"Call in the off-duty ones?"
"Grab the spry talkers first. Minimal arms."
"Yes, sir."
Soldiers dashed off at his orders. Karl quickened his pace; the parade ground soon came into view.
He spotted his long-time superior's back.
Brad had the troops seated and was mid-lecture.
"Fear stems from ignorance. Only by grasping the enemy can we escape it."
One soldier raised a hand.
"I get knowing the foe. But we've just been running drills for a month straight. Not sure it translates to real combat."
"Spar before battle, train swordsmanship before that. Foundation's stamina."
Brad hammered home the value of endurance training.
"Most die on the field from exhaustion. As long as you can lift your shield, you won't."
"True."
"Yeah. Full-power fighting lasts ten minutes tops."
His concise words carried double the persuasion.
"Sir, you said training ties to combat. So sparring embodies swordsmanship?"
"Jumping ahead."
Brad shook his head.
"Swordsmanship perfects forms. Sparring adapts to space and foe. Difference like book sketch versus real vista. Sparring to battle? Incomparable."
Halting, Brad raised a finger.
"That's why scout terrain before fighting."
The recruits' eyes sparkled at the penetrating lecture.
"Know terrain, then use it—after sizing up the enemy. Sadly, that's combat-only. Hence building stamina."
"This training leads to higher realms someday?"
"Higher realms are talent."
"Ah."
Sighs rippled at the hope-crushing words.
"But talent's also senses. Sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste. Still not getting it? Means you can hone them over time."
Brad pressed on, ignoring their reactions.
"Track a soaring bird's flight. Tune ears to sounds. Feel blindfolded. Listen deafened. Judge objects by scent."
"You saying that makes superhumans?"
Brad shrugged at the question.
"Issue's time. Talent just shortens it."
"So it's talent after all?"
"Eh, sort of."
Round and round to talent supremacy again.
Brad wagged his finger.
"Too soon for disappointment. Know the world's most absolute talent?"
"What?"
Listeners brimmed with anticipation; the speaker stayed firm.
"Effort."
"...Effort?"
"World's fair that way. Best bloodline or talent means nothing without effort—no greatness. Ever hear rags-to-riches through grit alone?"
"Time and effort? Too vague, too easy."
"And?"
As he said, we're born to different bodies. That's why "If they did it, so can you" stings.
"Choices for you? While weighing odds, isn't rolling in the dirt the net gain?"
"But the talentless?"
"None here."
He met each recruit's eyes.
"You all exceed baseline physiques. Doubt it? Surviving this north proves it. Despair's a luxury you can't afford. Harrig!"
"Yes, Commander!"
The veteran instructor adjusted his helmet.
"Got long-winded. Start afternoon schedule."
"Yes, sir. Gear up and assemble. Execute!"
"Execute."
Moving doesn't require full understanding. Armies turn men active with simple, clear goals.
"Laggard! Run!"
'Anyway, we're tempering.'
This basic tenet drove the trainees.
Brad turned at someone's ragged breaths.
"Recon squads back. Here."
Karl Bailyner looked unusually agitated as he proffered the tallies.
"All the same. Every squad reports native village hits."
"...!"
"It's the Wave."
Few survived a Wave. Karl was one.
Brad squeezed his eyes shut after scanning the tallies.
A desperate war between humans and orcs loomed. Defeat meant extinction, and Westguard was the front line.
"So it comes to this."
Brad loosened his collar with a frustrated tug.
The air hung heavy and humid.